The frozen ground looks gray. 'Twill shut the snow
Out from its bosom, and the flakes will fall
Softly and lie upon it. The hushed flow
Of the ice-covered waters, and the call
Of the cold driver to his oxen slow,
And the complaining of the gust, are all
That I can hear of music—would that I
With the green summer like a leaf might die?
So will a man grow gray, and on his head
The snow of years lie visibly, and so
Will come a frost when his green years have fled,
And his chilled pulses sluggishly will flow,
And his deep voice be shaken—would that I
In the green summer of my youth might die!